Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Whore

Page-
Rage.
Others-
Savage.
Thoughts-
Idiotic.
Triumphant-
Uncertainty.
Tears-
Enigmatic.

Dead Companion

Frail friendship fretting in foreboding
Of a funeral of one abandoned child,
Who dreamed of peace- a little seedling-
Emanating youth in his tender mind.

Father beat him up,
Mother silently left him,
This little life was about to grow up.
One day, he saw his mother call him-
Back to one new warm abode, father's cane hushed up.

No father, no pain,
It's like a blessed haven.
No hell of fright and no threat of malevolence.
Everywhere one motherly affection-
Parading a paradise in the peace of innocence.

Father's eyes glisten in the same old hell,
And the thin slim cane conjures bitter memories.
So he longs for those days,
And he can not but yell-
At dead belongings burning in his eyes.


Suddenly I wake up with sweat beads on my forehead.
Things look dead though they gaze at me,
Ruminations rant and revolt in my void head,
And I plunge into my dream in my Real regime.

Questions haunt me...
"Is it the hell or a haven-
Or my dream..
Or a reality
Where children scream??"

Monday, June 7, 2010

Shame!

People die,
people cry
only
to
let slayers,
the real big players,
defy
laws-
big flaws!

Kingdom

Police
beating men,
malice
killing peace,-

Haven.


Rulers
savoring sleep,
others
lost deep,-

Ignorance.


Man,-

Creep.

Satisfied?

Ruminations
Intend
To
Utterly
Purge
Rotten
Intellect-
Your
Askance.

Melody and Her Memory-Haiku

Happy Bagpiper
playing tune, fragrant like bloom
reminds me of her.

Free?

Stray kids
play on the dirty lane
to escape
father's cane.

Change?-Haiku

People cry for food,
They say,"It is change in Green",
Grins Red's disbelief.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Words and Dream

It's the real time to start something new
The cat's outta closet,
We're left with things so few.
For oft, words dictate and trigger one conceit
Envisaging one dream..
What if one begins to paint
Before he dares write in His realm?


Crackling thoughts and crumbs of passion-pudding,
Sticking to His cheek and He finally beams..
His eyes glisten, and tears tremble
And He's lost in the turbid streams.
Look at that crescent moon on the deep purple canvas,
It winks at the wide field of merry blossoms with no curse
But old and bold, the sinuous brook,
The real big crook,
Disgruntled and despondent.
To him it's nothing but one cold chuckle.


Streaks of graphite on one white sheet..
Weaving dreams where rhymes greet,-
Disdained pathos and petulant penchant-
For some words
Like bold swords..

And his both eyes gleam..
As he silently moves-
Towards one big dream.
With no big words...
And no big swords.